What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

The Militia ALWAYS Sides With the People. The Militia IS the People.“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” Orwell"The essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks."

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

The Militia ALWAYS Sides With the People. The Militia IS the People.“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” Orwell"The essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks."

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

The Militia ALWAYS Sides With the People. The Militia IS the People.“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” Orwell"The essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks."

I
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

II
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

III
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

IV
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

V
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

VI
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

The Militia ALWAYS Sides With the People. The Militia IS the People.“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” Orwell"The essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks."

Take up the White Man's burden--
Send forth the best ye breed--
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild--
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half-devil and half-child.

Take up the White Man's burden--
In patience to abide,
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain
To seek another's profit,
And work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden--
The savage wars of peace--
Fill full the mouth of Famine
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch sloth and heathen Folly
Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden--
No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper--
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go mark them with your living,
And mark them with your dead.

Take up the White Man's burden--
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard--
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:--
"Why brought he us from bondage,
Our loved Egyptian night?"

Take up the White Man's burden--
Ye dare not stoop to less--
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloke your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent, sullen peoples
Shall weigh your gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden--
Have done with childish days--
The lightly proferred laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!

The Militia ALWAYS Sides With the People. The Militia IS the People.“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” Orwell"The essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks."

Twas not while England's sword unsheathed
Put half a world to flight,
Nor while their new-built cities breathed
Secure behind her might;
Not while she poured from Pole to Line
Treasure and ships and men--
These worshippers at Freedoms shrine
They did not quit her then!

Not till their foes were driven forth
By England o'er the main--
Not till the Frenchman from the North
Had gone with shattered Spain;
Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
No hostile flag unrolled,
Did they remember that they owed
To Freedom--and were bold!

After

The snow lies thick on Valley Forge,
The ice on the Delaware,
But the poor dead soldiers of King George
They neither know nor care.

Not though the earliest primrose break
On the sunny side of the lane,
And scuffling rookeries awake
Their England' s spring again.

They will not stir when the drifts are gone,
Or the ice melts out of the bay:
And the men that served with Washington
Lie all as still as they.

They will not stir though the mayflower blows
In the moist dark woods of pine,
And every rock-strewn pasture shows
Mullein and columbine.

Each for his land, in a fair fight,
Encountered strove, and died,
And the kindly earth that knows no spite
Covers them side by side.

She is too busy to think of war;
She has all the world to make gay;
And, behold, the yearly flowers are
Where they were in our fathers' day!

Golden-rod by the pasture-wall
When the columbine is dead,
And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
Bright as the blood they shed.

The Militia ALWAYS Sides With the People. The Militia IS the People.“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” Orwell"The essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks."

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

A series of escapades, some good and some bad. At times you betray yourself and other times you are victorious. You embarrass yourself and you redeem yourself. You love and you hate.

Your life, like mine is a wave with highs and lows. Your first love, the one that didn't love you back. Then the one that did. Your first sex, with the one who could have been your soulmate, but it didn't work out. Then one did.

You work at a job you find boring or exciting, but not fulfilling. You have a boss that doesn't know sheep shit from wild honey, yet he/she is your boss, with power over you and you accede to conformity.

You eventually find a job that fulfills you, but not completely. You find something to believe in, but it's not complete either. You settle.

Years go by and there is a longing in you for a thing you can't put your finger on, searching. Maybe it's another person, you fuck around and have guilt follow you like an assassin. Then, you find that your sig other has fucked around too. Your world falls apart. You leave without direction, without purpose, you are devastated, seeing only one side.

Eventually you come to understand that only truth matters, yours, hers, it doesn't matter, as long as it is true. Your broken heart never heals, but the suffering does subside. You long for the one who can make you forget all the others, but he/she never appears.

Finally, you settle into a routine that at least seems normal. You work and make love and dream of things that might have been. You can never find the perfect reality, because it cannot exist for you. The betrayal and the being betrayed has taken the life from you. You live but aren't really alive, you screwed that up long ago.

You find an escape in drugs or alcohol and hide from reality, knowing you can't hide.

Then comes an understanding that surpasses all others. You finally know that your life, good or bad, is your life and you can get on with it or end it. You still search, you can't help it, but this is your life. There is nothing better for you, this is it.

All the great times you had mean nothing now, except in your mind, and they remind you that your life has been less than anticipated. The good times don't last, as don't the bad times, be grateful.

Look around you, count your blessings and enjoy the life you have, it won't get any better.

Life is an endurance and a sword with two edges. When it ends, you will feel both gratitude and regret. That's life.

The Militia ALWAYS Sides With the People. The Militia IS the People.“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” Orwell"The essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks."

I
One rocky isle in the open sea,
A safe haven for people who flee,
The desperate, hungry, refugees.
Part of a whole greater than itself.
Before the dark times came.
When there’s a loss in prosperity,
There can be a crisis of identity.
Demagogues on the prowl,
Whipping up,
Finding someone to blame.
‘Let’s get back control today,
Let’s go it alone,
Let’s do it our way’.
So to the ballot box they descended,
Consensus they ended,
And yes, they went their own way,
Banners flying for Independence Day.
Isola nation,
Newly born,
Viewed outsiders with scorn.II
Old agreements null and void,
So new arrangements need to be made,
Going far and wide to sell our wares,
For any price,
To anyone there.
Meanwhile back on the Isle,
Poisonous ideas were on the rise,
Who fits in and who doesn’t not,
‘Be gone,
be gone,
be gone with them,
Let’s make Isola great again.’III
Brain drain followed,
For them not the cold of this barren rock,
One by one they left, they left,
Leaving very little, little left.
They went their own way, they did of course,
But no nation is truly an island.
Much diminished this cruel island became,
For shame,
Isola Nation,
The clue was in the name.

The Militia ALWAYS Sides With the People. The Militia IS the People.“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” Orwell"The essence of the independent mind lies not in what it thinks, but in how it thinks."